


looking into the light of day

by voidfins



Series: light of day [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Athos, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: Athos doesn't really believe that d'Artagnan is guilty of murder. Part 1 of a modern AU where they're all Canadian cops.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is so, so far away from canon. I didn't even realize until I'd finished the whole thing that I didn't even have that classic "you killed my father prepare to die" part, so sorry I guess? Basically this is my AU where the boys are a special crimes unit in Canada, and this is how they meet d'Artagnan. It goes along with the one shot I posted a while back. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

Athos hadn’t expected this to go easily, and so far it wasn’t going to be what broke his record for being right.  


“Do you think he did it?” Porthos asked. He was standing on Athos’ left with his arms crossed.  


“Doubt it,” said Aramis, from his other side. “Why would he call the police if he did?”  


“Sudden guilt,” proposed Porthos, “or reverse psychology. Maybe he thought we wouldn’t suspect him if he was the one who called it in.”  


Aramis shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a little cynical, even for you.”  


“Gentleman,” Athos interjected, “innocent until proven guilty.”  


“I ain’t passin’ a sentence,” Porthos huffed. “Just conjecturing. You really think you’re going to get much out of him?” He gestured towards the figure sitting at the table in the interrogation room.  


“That remains to be seen,” Athos said.

*****

The boy looked up when Athos entered the room. He had been staring into space, not seeming to notice the large amounts of time passing. Someone had gotten him a dry sweatshirt, Athos noted, but his almost shoulder-length dark brown hair was still damp from the torrential rain that was falling outside. Athos laid the file on the table and sat down across from the boy, studying him. He was devastatingly young, and the damp hair and oversized sweatshirt didn’t help matters. Even though Athos had read his file and saw that he was in his early twenties, he had a hard time believing it.  


“Do you know who did it yet?” the boy—Athos couldn’t help but think of him that way—asked. His voice was rough, and he made a note to get someone to drop off a bottle of water. Porthos may have his doubts, but he wasn’t convinced that the young man sitting in front of him had murdered his own father.  


“Not yet,” he answered. “We’re looking into it. I have some questions for you.” There was no response, so he took it as a go ahead.  


“Charles d'Artagnan.” He thought he say the boy wince. “Something wrong?”  


“Just d'Artagnan, please.”  


“Fine. You said you found your father at his horse barn, and that he’d been shot. Is that correct?” Athos opened the file folder and flipped through the typed report he had been given, even though he had basically memorized it at this point.  


“Yes.” d'Artagnan’s voice was uneven. Athos suppressed the urge to sympathize with him. If he was proven innocent, maybe, but he wasn’t going to be drawn in by another murderer.  


“Did you see anyone leaving the premises?”  


d'Artagnan shook his head. “No.”  


“Have you had any disagreements or fights with your father recently?” d'Artagnan hadn’t looked up until this point, but now his head snapped up and Athos saw a glimpse of rage in his brown eyes.  


“Do you think,” he asked, in a low, angry voice, “that I killed my father?”  


“I haven’t ruled anything out yet,” Athos said, watching him carefully. He hadn’t answered the question.  


“So we’re sitting here, while the real killer is out there, and you’re going to ask me stupid questions?” d'Artagnan was gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white. Athos wondered if he was going to try to punch him. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.  


“No,” he said. “I’m trying to decide if I think you murdered your father or if the killer is actually out there somewhere.” He could imagine Aramis groaning behind the one-way mirror at his tactlessness.  


Abruptly, d'Artagnan sat back in his chair. Now he just looked tired and heartbroken. “My father was the only family I had, and I loved him. I don’t care what you think—I didn’t do this.”  


Athos closed the folder.

*****

“Do you believe him?” Porthos asked. He was standing over Athos’ desk while Aramis was sitting at his own a couple of feet away, making no pretense that he was doing anything other than listening intently. Athos looked up at Porthos.  


“I do,” he said.  


“Told you,” Aramis called. Porthos waved a hand at him dismissively.  


“Why?” he asked Athos.  


“Either he’s a very good and clever actor,” Athos said, “or he’s telling the truth. And I don’t think he’s all that good at acting. For one, he didn’t bring up his alibi once. People who are guilty always want to tell you it couldn’t possibly be them because they were somewhere else doing something else with someone else.”  


“Is there a number two?” Aramis wondered. Athos sighed.  


“Two is he seemed genuinely upset.” And had a single-minded determination to see his father’s murderer brought to justice. Athos begrudgingly admired him.  


“Doesn’t hurt that he just finished the RCMP academy,” Aramis put in. “With top marks.” Athos shrugged in acknowledgement.  


“So what are you going to do with him?” Porthos asked. He didn’t seem to be unduly upset that no one else shared his suspicions about the younger d'Artagnan. In fact, he seemed to have shed them. He and Aramis must have been watching from the observation room.  


“Release him, I suppose” said Athos, raising one eyebrow at him. “And find new, better leads.”  


“I have a feeling this is going to be one of those weird cases,” Aramis said, bouncing a rubber band ball off of the floor.

*****

The case was going nowhere fast. Athos wanted to bang his head against the pathetically small number of folders on his desk—proof of their lack of leads—but that would be a bad example to his two partners. They were always looking for an excuse to drop any level of professionalism they had managed to achieve.  


“I’ve been on tough cases before,” Aramis remarked, “but this is ridiculous. I can’t think of anyone less likely to have people wanting to kill him. The man was a saint.” Porthos snorted.  


“No one’s perfect,” he said, “but yeah, this guy was pretty close. I’m still trying to go through the list of charities he donated to. Trying to find someone with motive is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”  


“A Canada-sized haystack,” Aramis supplied helpfully.  


“That’s an exaggeration,” Athos said, sighing for what felt like the hundredth time that day.  


“Not by much,” Aramis muttered. Athos was saved from having to give him a look when his phone rang.  


“Athos,” he said, trying not to snap.  


“You said I should call,” said a voice it took him a moment to recognize as d'Artagnan’s, “if something came up about the case.”  


“Yes,” he said, suddenly focused. “And has it?” He saw Aramis and Porthos perk up at his change in tone.  


“There was a man. He was skulking around the barn. I saw him when I went out to check on the horses.” Athos had a second to wonder about the type of person who would put the well-being of some animals over his desire to avoid the scene of his father’s murder before d'Artagnan continued. “When I tried to ask him what he was doing, he bolted.”  


“Could you describe him?” Athos asked. He dug a pen he thought worked out of a drawer and scrambled for a sticky note.  


“Uh, about five-five. White, with short brown hair, bald spot.”  


In the background, Athos heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. He froze with the pen poised over the paper.  


“What’s happening?” he asked.  


“He’s back,” d'Artagnan said. Athos heard him take a deep breath. “And he’s brought friends. Three of them. They’re outside, but they’re coming this way.”  


“Are they armed?” Athos asked. He motioned for the other two to grab their gear. They obeyed without question; they had worked with him long enough to understand when it was the wrong time to mess around. He waited through the pause on the phone.  


“Yes.”  


“Get out of the house,” Athos ordered, striding out the door. “Take the gun, but don’t try to confront them. Get as far away from them as possible. There’s woods on your farm, right?”  


“Yes, acres of them. But cell reception isn’t great out there.”  
Athos frowned when he realized what the boy was telling him. He could run, but he might not be able to hide, and they wouldn’t be able to reach him.  


“Go,” he ordered. “We’re on our way.”

*****

“What’s happening?” asked Aramis. They were in Athos’ Suburban, but Porthos was driving because he was the best out of the three of them and Athos had phone calls to make to the local RCMP station. The d'Artagnan farm was outside city limits, and, the rain made it dangerous to go as fast as he wanted.  


“There are four armed men on the farm, presumably going after d'Artagnan,” he said, holding one hand over the speaker of the phone. “I have a description for one, but not the others.” He held up a hand, stalling more questions, as an officer came on the other end of the line. He reported what facts he knew and requested backup on site.  


“Why are they going after the son?” Porthos asked, never looking away from the road.  


“What if it isn’t a revenge thing?” Aramis asked. “What if they were looking for something and thought Alexander d'Artagnan could tell them where it is?”  


“They must not have found it, then,” Athos said grimly. “Now they’re going after his son.”  


“He’ll be fine, Athos,” Aramis tried to reassure him. “I bet he knows those woods like the back of his hand.”  


“It’s dark, it’s raining, and it’s four against one,” Athos pointed out. He was holding his phone too tightly; the plastic was biting into his hand.  


“We’ll get there,” Porthos said, pressing down just a little harder on the gas pedal.

*****

d'Artagnan would have been scared if he weren’t so busy running for his life. The thugs—what else could they be, with eyebrows that close together and necks so thick?—had busted in the front door as he was scampering out the back. He hadn’t had time to close it behind him, but he hoped they would waste a few minutes looking for him inside the house before following him outside.  


It was still pouring rain, seemingly oceans of it, and he was instantly soaked. He adjusted his grip on the old shotgun his father had kept to warn off foxes. He wasn’t sure it would even fire after being drenched. He only had one shell for it anyway. d'Artagnan reached the treeline and entered the woods. Even the canopy of leaves, sparse now in September, couldn’t keep the rain out. He had to slow down so he wouldn’t trip over tree roots hidden under piles of sodden leaves. He had played in these woods as a boy, but it had been years since he had been back here. The past four he had been away at college and then the RCMP academy and not home with his father where he should have been—but now wasn’t the time for self-recriminations. There was a riding path threading through the trees; it wasn’t the most straightforward, but it was flat and relatively free of obstacles, and he would be able to move faster on it.  


A sudden shout behind him startled him, and he twisted to see two of the thugs much closer than he wanted them to be. They both had guns drawn. d'Artagnan put on a burst of speed and darted into the thicker trees, hoping he could outsmart them if he couldn’t outrun them. They shot at him as he turned, the gunshots cracking out in distinct difference from the rumbling thunder. He felt one graze his upper thigh in a burning line and stumbled, but pushed off a tree and forced himself to keep moving.  


If he stopped now he was dead.

*****

Even though they had been farther away than the local Mounties, Athos and his team got to the farm first. d'Artagnan’s car, an older pickup, was parked neatly in the drivelane. A dark colored SUV was pulled haphazardly in behind it. The suspects’ car, Athos presumed. He drew his gun and went to the front door. It had been kicked in pretty thoroughly. Even the frame was splintered. He went in first, with Aramis and Porthos close on his heels, but the house was empty and the back door was also swinging open, the screen door banging in the wind.  


“They must have followed him,” he said out loud.  


“Then what’re we waiting for?” Porthos demanded. Athos hesitated—he really should leave one of them here to wait on local law enforcement—but only for a moment.  


“Come on,” he said, leading the way.

*****

d'Artagnan was pretty sure he was slowing down, but he couldn’t help it. It was too many hours until dawn, and what light he might have gotten from the moon was drowned by rain clouds. He had abandoned any hope of using the horse path when the two men had almost caught him. It might have been faster for him, but it would help them too, and with his leg throbbing worse with every step, he wasn’t going to be able to leave them behind. He didn’t know how long it had been since he talked to Athos on the phone, but it felt like years. His cell phone wasn’t registering any service, and he wasn’t going to be able to run for much longer.  


What he needed was a place to either hide or make a stand. d'Artagnan looked around, trying to determine his options. It was doubtful that he would be able to climb a tree right now, and he didn’t want to trap himself like that anyway. The only thing he could think of was—  


The creek.  


Even after being chased through the woods in the dark, he still had a rough idea of where he was. It came from spending most of his waking hours on this land when he was growing up, and it was going to come in handy now. He turned in the direction he was thought the creek was in and headed that way as fast as he could.  


It took too long to locate it when he couldn’t hear the running water over the rain on the leaves above him, but eventually he stumbled onto it. Literally. d'Artagnan tripped over a rock, the soft ground crumbling beneath him, and landed in the middle of it. He gasped, trying to get back the breath that had been knocked out of him. His left leg was in agony, but he tried to pull himself together as best he could. Luckily for him the creek was shallow, with steep sides and a cutbank that overhung itself. He would be able to hide underneath it.  


d'Artagnan dragged himself over to where he was mostly concealed by the bank and settled in to wait, his father’s shotgun clutched in his hands.

*****

Athos was frustrated by their lack of progress, but he knew they couldn’t go any faster without risking missing some signs of either d'Artagnan’s or his pursuers’ passage. Still, it was driving him crazy. He could feel Porthos and Aramis flanking him on either side, reassuring presences at his back.  


The gunshot almost startled him, when it came. He turned on his heel and ran in the direction it had come from. The others would follow. He noted distantly that the direction they were headed was almost perpendicular to the path they had been following. Had d'Artagnan done that on purpose?  


The trees gave way abruptly and Athos almost fell on top of the fight. One man was face down in a wide creek. Another was trying to wrestle a shotgun away from d'Artagnan himself while he put up one hell of a fight. Athos trained his gun on the suspect while Porthos and Aramis spread out to cover more angles.  


“Police!” Athos bellowed. “Step back and put your hands behind your head!”  


The man, startled, turned to look at them and d'Artagnan took his moment to finally pull the shotgun away and slam the stock across his opponent’s face, dropping him like a rock. He stood, panting, while Athos slid down the bank and made his way over.  


“Are you alright?” Athos asked, looking him up and down.  


“I’ll be fine,” d'Artagnan gasped, which was an uncomfortably vague answer, but Athos couldn’t see enough to call him on it at the moment.  


Porthos had secured the second man with a pair of handcuffs, hauling him to his feet while he groaned. Athos sent a look at Aramis, who was standing by the first. Aramis shook his head. Dead, then. Athos turned back to d'Artagnan, who didn’t seem to be quite processing everything.  


“Here,” he said, gently reaching out to put a hand on the gun. “You don’t need this anymore. Is it loaded?”  


“I only had one shell,” the younger man mumbled, letting go of it. He looked up at Athos. “I think I hit him.”  


“We’ll worry about that later, when there’s not still two more criminals running around. Can you climb the bank?” Athos thought he had spent his one shot well, but he knew better than to say that out loud. d'Artagnan looked at the bank doubtfully. It wasn’t terribly tall, but it was steep.  


“Don’t think so,” he said. “Standing is a chore right now.” Athos took a step closer to him.  


“What happened?” he asked.  


“Grazed when they were shooting at me,” d'Artagnan said, putting a hand on his thigh. His jeans were soaked and Athos couldn’t tell what was water and what was blood on the dark material, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.  


“Aramis,” he called, and his partner appeared at his side. “We need to get d'Artagnan into the hands of some paramedics. Let’s get him up the bank, shall we?” Aramis nodded and climbed the bank, grabbing a convenient tree trunk with one hand and holding out the other.  


“Let us do the hard work,” Athos instructed. d'Artagnan looked at him and then up at Aramis and seemed to steel himself. He took the offered hand and tried his best to help as Athos gave him a boost and Aramis pulled, but cut off a cry as his leg refused to hold his weight anymore and Aramis had to catch him.  


Athos scrambled up, deciding that it was dark enough that he could do away with dignity for the moment and paused a moment to help Porthos get their prisoner on level ground as well before turning back. d'Artagnan was leaning heavily on Aramis, but he was sort of standing on his own again so Athos took that as a good sign. He went over to support his other side and they headed back towards the house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the terrific response to the first chapter! I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

The flashing lights of the ambulance bounced off the cars around it, making the area around the house seem much brighter than it was. The rain had let up, some, but it didn’t really matter now. They were all soaked. Athos stood by the end of the ambulance with his arms crossed while a paramedic examined d'Artagnan, who was wrapped in an orange blanket. Other than his leg, various cuts and bruises, and exposure from the rain, he was relatively alright. Athos was going to make sure that he got to a hospital anyway.  


The mounties were searching the farm, but the SUV he had seen earlier was gone and there was a good chance that the other two suspects had seen the three of them pull up and had run when they followed d'Artagnan and his pursuers into the woods. Local law enforcement could handle that. Now that they knew that there was more at play than simple murder—a phrase he never would have uttered ten years ago—he wasn’t about to let the object of their scheming out of his sight.  


Said object was doing a fairly decent job of holding himself together, but Athos was waiting for everything to sink in.  


“It’s a pretty shallow graze,” the paramedic said, looking up. “You were lucky.”  


d'Artagnan huffed a laugh.  


“You should still go to the hospital,” the man continued. “Especially if you fell in a creek like you said.”  


“He will,” Athos interjected firmly.  


d'Artagnan looked up at him. “Athos—”  


“Not up for debate. There are still two suspects on the loose and you need to be seen to by a doctor. No offense,” he said to the paramedic.  


“None taken,” the guy said, raising an eyebrow. “I think.”  


“But—” d'Artagnan tried to protest, but Athos completely ignored him.  


“I’ll ride with him,” he said. “I just have to take care of something.”  


“Fine by me,” said the paramedic. He was apparently used to bullying recalcitrant patients into cooperating, because he started to herd d'Artagnan into the back of the ambulance with a minimum of fuss. Athos strode over to where Aramis and Porthos were waiting by the suburban.  


“He gonna make it?” Porthos asked, indicating the ambulance with his chin.  


“Fine,” Athos said. “They’re taking him to St. Mary’s. I’m going to ride along. You two follow. I want at least one of us with him at all times until we figure out what the hell is going on.”  


Aramis sketched a sloppy salute and rounded the vehicle to climb into the passenger seat.  


“You think they’ll try again?” Porthos asked.  


“With our luck? Absolutely,” Athos told him.

*****

It didn’t take long for a doctor to clean and bandage d'Artagnan up and give him a an antibiotic and a prescription for painkillers that Athos saw him shove into his pocket without looking at it. Now they were at an impasse.  


“You’re not going back to the farm,” Athos said for the fourth time. He looked at his partners for support but Porthos was resolutely ignoring the argument and Aramis held up his hands and took a step back.  


“I am, actually.” said d'Artagnan. Athos upgraded his estimation of how stubborn the kid was from irritatingly to catastrophically. “I don’t know why you would think otherwise.”  


“Probably because there are at least two more men out there who tried to kill you. Also, because I said so.”  


“Very convincing,” d'Artagnan said, rolling his eyes and turning towards the door.  


“It’s not happening,” Athos ground out. d'Artagnan turned to face him, one hand on the wall for support.  


“And where else am I supposed to go?” He snapped. Athos paused, realizing that this fight might not be about what he thought it was.  


“A safe house, for now,” he said in a quieter voice. “It’s not for long. Just until we close this case. I’d rather you be alive to take care you your father’s farm.”  


d'Artagnan slumped against the wall, some of the fight leaving him, and scrubbed a hand over his face.  


“Fine.”  


Athos motioned Porthos forward. “Why don’t you head down to the car? We’ll be right behind you.” He waited until they were halfway down the hall to turn to Aramis.  
“See if you can convince a nurse to give you something for d'Artagnan. He’s going to be hurting later.” Aramis grinned, holding up a pink piece of crumpled paper that Athos recognized as the unfilled prescription.  


“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. Athos eyed him.  


“Did you steal that out of his pocket?” he asked.  


“No,” Aramis shook his head. “Porthos did. He’s better at it than I am. All the same in the end though.” Athos sighed, more out of exasperation than true irritation.  


“Whatever. Take care of that, then meet me at the car. I’m going to update the Captain.”  


“Good luck with that.” Aramis walked off with a wave.  


Athos, in the relative privacy of the empty hallway, rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, hitting speed dial.  


“Treville.” It may have been ridiculously early, but Athos’ superior sounded unruffled. He updated him on what had happened.  


“I assume you’re taking him into protective custody?” Treville asked.  


“Yes,” Athos told him. “To the east side safe house.”  


“Good. I’ll get another team on finding those other two. In the meantime, try to see if you can figure out what they’re after.”  
“Will do,” Athos said, and hung up.  


They needed to get to the bottom of this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than I prefer, but that's where it wanted to end. A longer one tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer. We're getting to the plot-moving forward parts, which I struggle with. Bear with me.

The ride over was quiet. Aramis sat in the back with d'Artagnan, who was resolutely looking out the window. Athos could only take so much of someone else driving his car when it wasn’t an emergency, so he had taken the driver’s seat. Porthos, for his part, was content to flip through radio channels looking for something acceptable. Athos had tried to break him of the habit when they first started working together, but Aramis preferred to listen to pop music at high volumes, so it was really the lesser of two evils.  


The safe house was a modest two story building on the east side of the city in what was verging on suburban territory. Athos knelt to retrieve the key from under a rock and keyed in the security code Treville had texted him. The place hadn’t been used recently, and it was chilly inside. He flipped on the light in the kitchen and started opening cabinets, looking for a container of coffee. From another room, he heard Porthos mutter to himself and the furnace kick on.  


“How do you want to do this?” Aramis asked, hopping up on the center island. d'Artagnan trailed him into the room, and Athos made a note to get him sitting down soon. Walking around on that leg couldn’t be comfortable. He wasn’t going to make an issue of it, though, since he also suspected that the young man would be asleep soon after he stopped moving for any period of time.  


“Shifts,” Athos grunted. The clock on the microwave showed that it was a little past five, and he didn’t like to think about how long they had all been up. “I’ll take first, since I won’t be sleeping for awhile.” He gestured at the coffee pot that he had coaxed to life.  


“Suit yourself,” said Aramis. “I’m sure there’s a bed somewhere in this house, and I’m making it my personal mission to find it.” He hopped down and wandered out of the room. Athos heard him head up the stairs. He would make sure that the second floor was secure before he slept.  


“What about you?” Athos asked, glancing at d'Artagnan, who was still hovering in the doorway.  


“What about me?” he asked, looking up.  


“Sleep or coffee?” Athos persisted. d'Artagnan glanced at the bubbling coffee pot longingly, but declined.  


“Probably sleep,” he said with more than a tinge of regret. Smart kid. Athos dug into his pocket for the bottle of pills that Aramis had handed him when they were walking out of the hospital.  


“Take one of these, then,” he ordered. “You’ll thank me later.” d'Artagnan looked from the bottle—with his name on it—to Athos and back, then shrugged and took it, screwing off the cap and dry swallowing one of the pills. Athos winced. He hated when people did that. But he had been prepared for a fight, so he’d take what he could get. d'Artagnan set the orange bottle on the counter.  


“Where do you want me?” he asked.  


“There’s two more bedrooms upstairs,” Athos told him. “Aramis is probably asleep in one, but take your pick of the others. You going to make it up the stairs?”  


“They didn’t amputate my leg,” d'Artagnan grumbled at him. Athos shrugged and turned back to watching the coffee pot fill, but still listened for any loud sounds that might indicate that his charge had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.  


“We’re gonna have our hands full with that one,” Porthos said cheerfully, entering the kitchen. Porthos was usually cheerful. It had been annoying at first, but now Athos used him as a weather gauge. If Porthos was upset, they were in deep shit.  


“If only he’d pick his battles,” Athos drawled.  


“He is,” Porthos snickered. “All of them. I never thought I’d see the day where someone would out stubborn you.” Athos gave him a look.  


“He didn’t. We’re here, aren’t we?”  


“He was at a disadvantage,” Porthos pointed out, suddenly sobering. “He’s been through a lot in the past few days.”  


“Yeah,” Athos agreed.  


“He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Porthos continued. He narrowed his eyes at Athos’ noncommittal grunt. “You’re waiting for him to crack, aren’t you.”  


“Don’t even,” Athos said, pulling a blue mug down from a cabinet. “You and Aramis have probably already got bets on it.”  


“Of course we do,” Porthos said, “but we bet on everything. You’re usually above that sort of thing.”  


“I haven’t put down money on it,” Athos pointed out. “But everything is going to catch up to him sooner or later. I just hope that we’ll have closed this case by then.”  


“You like him,” Porthos accused, smirking.  


“He’s an admirable young man,” Athos said dryly. One who didn’t panic in bad situations and had a strong sense of justice.  


“Have you talked to him about the guy he killed?” Porthos asked, sliding onto a bar stool. Athos shifted uncomfortably and toyed with his cup.  


“It hasn’t come up,” he said.  


“It’s going to,” Porthos warned. “When he’s coherent he’ll ask about it.”  


“Why is it my job to counsel him?” Athos griped. Porthos just stared at him, and he relented. “It was a clear case of self defense. No one will dispute that.”  


Porthos rolled his eyes. “No one is worried that he’ll be arrested. Just something to keep in mind.” He stood with a groan, stretching. “I’m going to see if there’s anything good on television at this time of morning.”  


Athos snorted. “Probably just the news.”  


“The news it is, then,” Porthos said, and walked out of the room.

*****

Four hours later Aramis stumbled groggily down the stairs and plodded straight to the coffee pot without a word to either of his partners. Porthos shook his head and went to take his own nap. Athos watched from the kitchen table as Aramis took the powdered creamer out of the cabinet, put it on the counter, and then proceeded to search for it again. Athos finally took pity on him and picked it up to wave it in front of his face. Aramis stared at it for a moment, but shrugged and took it.  


Ten minutes later, when he had consumed at least one cup of coffee, he was a little more coherent.  


“You should get some sleep too,” Aramis told him. Athos sighed. He was right. They wouldn’t be able to do anything for now, and the house was relatively safe in the daylight and with Aramis keeping watch.  


“Fine,” he said. “Make sure I’m awake later.”  


“If I think you’re in danger of becoming sleeping beauty, I’ll wake you up,” Aramis promised solemnly.  


He could hear Porthos snoring when he got to the top of the stairs, and it made him smile. The man never had any problems falling asleep. He opened one of the other bedroom doors quietly. d'Artagnan was laying, still fully dressed except for his shoes, on top of the comforter with a throw blanket pulled over him. He didn’t look like he’d so much as twitched since he hit the pillow. Athos pulled the door closed again and went to the empty bedroom. He didn’t have any problems falling asleep after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, after I have finished posting this fic (there's 8 chapters) I will gladly accept prompts for this AU (except smut). You can comment or email me at voidfinswriting@gmail.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluffy fluffy. Parts, at least.

It was finally his stomach that woke him up, reminding him that it had been too long since he’d had any real food, and that coffee didn’t count. Athos shoved the blankets aside and plodded down the stairs. Porthos was sitting in a chair in the living room, perched on the edge of his seat and staring intently at the screen. D’artagnan was on the couch, sitting sideways so he could keep his leg stretched out. Athos glanced at the tv, but all he could interpret was horses prancing around.  


“What are they doing now?” Porthos asked.  


“Showing off their paces,” D’artagnan said. The words weren’t making much sense to Athos, so he didn’t bother asking and went in search of food.  


Aramis was in the kitchen, humming to himself. There was an assortment of groceries laid out on the counter, and it looked like he was frying bacon and eggs.  


“Good morning,” he said as Athos entered the room. “Or afternoon. Whatever. Do you want an egg?”  


“Why are you cooking?” Athos managed to ask.  


“Because everyone is hungry, and I’m not eating takeout again.” Aramis flipped an egg decisively. Athos didn’t see the problem with takeout. It was basically what he lived on. Still, he decided to let it go in the interest of getting food faster and sat down at the island.  


“How is he?” he asked. Aramis glanced up from his cooking.  


“Could be worse. He needs to take another painkiller, but he shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.” He flapped a hand at a plate piled high with bacon. “Hence the cooking. Porthos is keeping an eye on him, but he’s been pretty quiet.”  


Athos propped his chin on one hand. He was going to have to ask some difficult questions sooner than later, but it could wait until after lunch. Or dinner.  


“Any word from Treville?” he asked, eyeing the coffee pot, which was almost empty. There might be enough for a half cup.  


“None yet,” Aramis reported. He popped two new pieces of bread in the toaster, and Athos had the thought that if he was as efficient at paperwork as he was with food, there would never be a backlog again. “But I’m sure he’ll call as soon as he knows anything.”  


Athos hummed in agreement. There was nothing much for them to do in the meantime. Protective duty was dull at best, and nerve-wracking at worst. He would settle for dull if it meant he wouldn’t have to shoot anyone before his next cup of coffee.  


Aramis enlisted his help to set the table with silverware that looked like it had scarcely been used, and handed him plates of bacon and toast to set in the center. The eggs he plated individually. The clatter of dishes had apparently alerted Porthos, who appeared in the kitchen with a weary looking d’Artagnan in tow. Athos wondered if he had woken up as soon as the painkiller had worn off, or if he had managed any more sleep than that. Judging from the dark circles under his eyes, it was the former.  


Sitting around the kitchen table gave him an oddly domestic feeling, as if this was a real home rather than the shell of one that was only occasionally used. It seemed almost normal.  


“I need to go back to the farm today,” d’Artagnan said suddenly, exactly as Athos took a bite of bacon. He chewed to stall for time, but didn’t miss the look Porthos sent Aramis across the table. The two of them would be exchanging money later; he wondered who had won the bet.  


“We’ve been over this,” Athos began at last, but paused when d’Artagnan shook his head.  


“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he said. Athos assumed the right now was implied. “But the horses have to be taken care of. I can’t just leave them for days on end.” Athos frowned. That was a very reasonable argument.  


“Isn’t there a neighbor who can do it?” he asked.  


“I don’t know if the same people even live in the area anymore,” d’Artagnan said. There was an emotion beneath that statement that Athos couldn’t quite decipher. “And I wouldn’t put them in danger anyway. There should be a stable hand, but I don’t know the arrangements. Possibly it’s a student and they help out on weekends only during the school year.”  


Athos mulled it over, but he already knew they would be going. D’artagnan was right about the neighbors, and even with two of the men from last night on the loose, they weren’t likely to come back to the last place the RCMP had been looking for them in broad daylight. The odds were in his team’s favor, this time.  


“Fine,” he said, “but if I feel like anything is off, I’m calling it.”  


D’Artagnan nodded. “Good enough.”

*****

The d’Artagnan farm seemed much less sinister in the daylight and without the rain. It had cleared up sometime early and, while everything was soaked, the sky was a brilliant blue that was particular to autumn.  


D’Artagnan glanced at the house when he got out, but headed straight for the barn instead. Athos gestured for Porthos to go with him. Aramis hung back while the two of them made their way to the barn.  


“This must have been a nice place to grow up,” Aramis observed, looking around. He was right. It was practically idyllic. “I don’t know if I would have ever left.”  
“I wouldn’t say that in front of d’Artagnan,” Athos warned. “I think he feels guilty over his father’s death.”  


“Of course he does,” Aramis snorted. Athos looked at him, surprised. “He wasn’t here to help. Not that it would have come out differently, except for maybe two bodies, but there’s always that what if factor. None of it is his fault, but that doesn’t mean he sees it that way.”  


Athos shrugged. There wasn’t really anything left for him to say. He didn’t think d’Artagnan was to blame, but then again that made him a hypocrite because he couldn’t let go of his own guilt over Thomas’ death.  


But now wasn’t the time to wallow.  


“Come on,” he said instead. “I want to take a look at the house.” he turned towards the two-story blue farmhouse, trusting Aramis to follow.  


“You think you’ll be able to figure out why he was killed?” Aramis asked, falling into step.  


“Maybe,” Athos said. “It can’t hurt to look.”  


Somebody had been thoughtful enough to pull the door firmly closed and secure it with several strategically places strips of duct tape. The lock and frame around it had been destroyed when the door was kicked in. Athos peeled back the tape and walked inside. A narrow table in the entry had been knocked over, the ceramic vase on it shattered on the floor. He stepped over it and made his way down to where the hall diverged into the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other. A staircase with a worn wooden bannister led upstairs.  


Athos wandered into the living room. It was painted a soft grey, and the furniture was a mix of oak and blue upholstery. Athos decided someone must have liked blue very much, since it was everywhere. The tall windows let in the light from outside, making the room seem bigger than it really was. There were pictures on the walls, of a younger Alexandre and a woman Athos guess must be his wife, and a tiny version of d’Artagnan who was grinning from ear to ear in almost every scene. Many of the photos were from equestrian competitions, and were accompanied by blue ribbons hung neatly from the frames. Nowhere did Athos see any pictures where d’Artagnan looked older than maybe thirteen. He wondered why the pictures had stopped.  


“Someone liked the classics,” Aramis remarked. He was browsing the bookshelves. Athos walked over to see the selection: Tolstoy, Dumas, Hemingway, Shelley. Other names, ones he only vaguely recognized from years of private tutors trying to classically educate him.  


He crossed the hall to the kitchen. It was a cheerful yellow with blue curtains—he wasn’t surprised by now—and a distinctly farmhouse feel to it. It was very clean. Athos could picture several coffee cups and a spoon or two sitting in his sink at home, but there was no such clutter here. He wondered if it was always that way, or if d’Artagnan had been tidying things up as a way to keep distracted. The dining room only had a large trestle table and chairs, and the fourth room looked like a study. The shelves had books about every subject relating to horses he could imagine plus some, and a sturdy looking desk with a worn leather chair. There were even more plaques and trophies in this room. The view from the window encompassed the barn and part of the pasture.  


“Do you want to look upstairs?” Aramis asked from the doorway. Athos looked up from where he was leafing through papers on the desk. It was standard, as far as he could tell. Orders for feed and veterinary bills and the like. Nothing that was worth being murdered over.  


“Not yet,” he said. “We’ll ask d’Artagnan first. Besides, if it’s anything like down here, there’s not much to find.”  


“You never know,” Aramis said. “He could have a secret stash of something.”  


Athos looked around and the borderline obsessive order of the study and the obvious pride the man had taken in his work. “Somehow I doubt that.” He checked his watch. “How long does it take to feed a few horses?”  


Aramis shrugged. “I guess it depends on how many of them there are.”

*****

Longer than he thought, was the answer. The long, low barn contained a dozen horses all told. A few took interest in him and Aramis when they walked in the door, but quickly went back to their troughs. Porthos was standing by a wheelbarrow with his arms crossed and a resigned expression. Athos raised an eyebrow and the big man shrugged one shoulder, jerking a thumb towards the open stall door. He opened his mouth to ask the obvious question when d’Artagnan stepped into view holding, of all things, a pitchfork. He leaned it against the wall and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.  


“I thought you were just going to feed them,” Athos said.  


“Might as well muck out the stalls while I’m here,” d’Artagnan said, matter-of-factly. “Who knows when the next chance I have will be?”  


Athos shook his head. Honestly, what had he expected? He could hear Aramis trying to smother a snicker from behind him.  


“Aramis will help you then,” he said. “He has some experience with horses, and it’ll go faster that way.”  


“It was one summer when I was fourteen!” Aramis protested, but he was already rolling up his sleeves so Athos figured he wasn’t actually upset. He looked at Porthos.  


“Nuh uh,” Porthos said. “I’ve got wheelbarrow duty.”  


D’Artagnan looked up from where he was spreading fresh bedding on the floor of the stall. “Can you help move the horses?” he asked, looking at Athos.  


Athos stared at him. “Pardon?”  


D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and snagged a lead rope from where it was hanging over the stall door. He held it out to Athos. “They’ll follow you no problem. Just clip this on the halter and start walking. I’ve been taking them out to the smaller paddock until I’m done in here.”  


Athos took the rope and looked towards the next stall down, where an enormous black horse had poked its head out and was watching them curiously.  


“Didn’t your fancy boarding school make you take riding lessons?” Porthos asked. His mouth was twitching like he was trying not to smile.  


“I got to pick my elective,” Athos said. “I chose rowing.” He heard Aramis snort. Even d’Artagnan cracked a smile.  


Athos approached the occupied stall carefully. The horse inside was coal black and truly massive. There was a reason that he had avoided riding as much he could in school: horses were far bigger than they had any right to be. He didn’t enjoy the feeling that they could crush him and not even notice.  


“You have to open the door,” d’Artagnan pointed out. Athos glanced at him, irritated.  


“I know that.” He gritted his teeth and unlatched the stall door, keeping an eye on the horse, who, for its part, didn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. He stiffened when it stretched its neck out to inspect him more closely.  


“He’s not going to bite you, you know,” d’Artagnan said from the door. “He’s a gentle soul. Kind of lazy, actually.” Athos could tell he was amused by the situation, but refused to give him the satisfaction of backing away. Instead, he reach out and clipped the lead onto the ring under the horse’s chin. D’Artagnan obligingly pulled the stall door open wide so they could come out.  


Aramis whistled, putting his hands on his hips. “What’s his name?”  


“Nuit Tranquille,” d’Artagnan said, stroking the horse’s neck, “but we just call him Tran. He’s a Friesian. He does dressage, when we can get him to take an interest.” Tran snuffled at him, presumably looking for treats. He seemed even bigger compared to d’Artagnan’s slim frame.  


Athos led the horse to the open stable door and into the paddock. Sort of led, anyway. Tran seemed to know what was expected of him and headed that way on his own. He stopped just inside the gate and looked over, expectant. Athos unclipped the lead and Tran plodded a few feet away and promptly started cropping grass. Athos couldn’t help snorting. D’Artagnan hadn’t been kidding about lazy.  


It went more quickly after that. None of the other horses were quite as...large...as Tran, and Athos felt more confident about approaching them. D’Artagnan worked industriously, with Aramis keeping a close eye on him. He was beginning to favor his leg more than Athos was comfortable with when they finally finished. Not that he’d ever get the kid to admit it, even after the horses were all back in their stalls and crunching on their feed.  


“Do you need anything from the house?” Athos asked as they washed up. D’Artagnan looked at him suspiciously. He probably thought Athos had been going to insist that they leave immediately. Athos refused to feel bad about his ulterior motives.  


“I’d like to grab some extra clothes,” d’Artagnan said, drying his hands on a rag.  


They all headed back to the house. It was just past noon, and the switch to bright daylight from the dimness of the barn made Athos squint. Then it was back again when they entered the house. D’Artagnan hesitated for a fraction of moment at the foot of the stairs, glancing at the open door to the study, but looked away again and headed up the stairs, his hand on the rail. Athos pushed down the feeling that he was intruding and followed him.  


The second floor of the farmhouse was just as neat as the first, the only signs of disarray appearing when d’Artagnan opened a door on the left to what was evidently his bedroom. Even here it was minimal: a shirt draped over the back of a chair, the bed unmade. He stood in the door as d’Artagnan smoothed the covers and threw a few articles of clothing into a duffel bag. The younger man stood still then, as if not sure what to do.  


“Is there anything else you want?” Athos asked quietly.  


“Before last week I hadn’t been in this house for four years,” d’Artagnan said. He turned around and Athos could see unshed tears in his eyes. “But everything is still the same. I keep expecting him to come around the corner and tell me to do my chores.”  


Athos didn’t have any comfort for him. He wasn’t good in these situations.  


“We’ll find whoever did this,” he offered. “They’ll see justice.”  


That was apparently enough to satisfy d’Artagnan. He took a breath and squared his shoulders.  


“Let’s go,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this my excuse to write about the team and horses? Absolutely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, plot!

D’Artagnan was restless back at the safe house, and he wasn’t the only one. Porthos kept doing perimeter checks, and Aramis had resorted to rearranging all of the cabinets and muttering to himself in Spanish. Athos was slightly better at waiting than either of them, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bored. He was working on disassembling and cleaning his gun at the kitchen table when his phone rang shrilly. He wiped his hands on a rag and answered it.  


“Athos.”  


“It’s Treville. I have an update for you.” Athos felt more than saw Aramis trying to listen in from across the room, but ignored it. “We have an ID on our dead perp. His name was Daniel Brooks. Thirty-four, from Regina, and heavily involved with criminal enterprises.”  


“Enterprises?” Athos questioned.  


“Gangs, cartels. Organized crime. He seems to have hired himself out as muscle. The most recent info I have says he was working for the Markham gang.”  


Athos frowned. He’d heard of the Markham gang. They had good lawyers; it was hard to pin anything on them. They were also fairly high up on the food chain. It didn’t make sense for them to go after a low profile, not outstandingly wealthy horse trainer.  


“Anything else?” he asked.  


“I’ll update you when there’s something more,” Treville said. “Until then, talk to the son. Try to make some connections so we aren’t going into this blind.”  


“Will do,” Athos said.  


“And Athos,” Treville continued.  


“Yes?”  


“Stay on guard. I have a feeling this case is going to be trouble. The Markham gang is usually lower profile than this.”  


“Yes sir,” Athos said, and hung up the phone. He looked up to see the other three staring at him.  


“What news?” Aramis asked, leaning on his elbows on the island. Athos dutifully repeated what Treville had told him, watching d’Artagnan carefully.  


“A gang?” the younger man asked when he was finished. He shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. My father was a pacifist.”  


“Doesn’t mean he was in it,” Porthos said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Athos noted with interest that d’Artagnan didn’t shake it off. Porthos was much better at comforting people than he was. Porthos also actually tried.  


“I need to ask you some questions about your father, though,” Athos said. “It might help figure out what’s going on.” d’Artagnan nodded, and sat down across from him.  


“Do you want us to leave?” Aramis asked.  


“You might as well stay,” d’Artagnan said. “That way you won’t have to hear it second-hand later.” Aramis shrugged in acknowledgement and stayed where he was. Porthos slouched against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Athos considered how to begin.  


“Did you ever hear your father mention anyone who might have been related to a gang? Phone conversations he didn’t want you overhearing?”  


“Not that I can remember,” d’Artagnan said. “He obsessed over the horses and his work after my mother died. I can barely remember any conversations that didn’t revolve around that. I guess that could have changed in the past four years, but I doubt it.”  


“What happened in the past four years?” Athos asked.  


“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan said, crossing his arms. Athos could sense the tension radiating off of him. “I wasn’t there. We disagreed on what I should do with my life. He wanted me to stay on the farm instead of going to university. I went anyway, so he told me not to come back.”  


Athos wanted to wince, but he knew better than to show any sympathy. D’Artagnan was more likely to get defensive than accept it. Instead, he said: “Have you had any contact with him since then?” D’Artagnan shrugged, but it was jerky.  
“I tried to call him a year ago, when I graduated. It ended in shouting.”  


“What about this time?” Athos asked. Behind d’Artagnan he saw Porthos clench his jaw. His relationship with his biological family was rocky at best.  


“I just finished the RCMP academy. I wanted to make amends. It had been a long time, and I…” he trailed off, and dropped his eyes to the table. “I thought if I kept my temper this time we could work out some sort of a truce.” He looked back up. “He must have thought the same thing. We had a mostly civil conversation.”  


Athos’ parents had died in a car crash when he was young, but even before then they had never had much time for him and Thomas. He only had vague memories of them. It was obvious, though, that whatever had happened, d’Artagnan had loved his father dearly.  


“Why didn’t he want you to go to university?” Aramis asked. D’Artagnan looked over at him.  


“Said it was a waste of time,” he told them. “Which was hypocritical of him, because he went himself. Wanted to be an accountant, of all things. He was good with numbers.”  


A tiny alarm started going off in the back of Athos’ head.  


“An accountant?” he asked, with forced casualness.  


D’Artagnan nodded. “He did all of the bookkeeping for the farm. Tried to get me to learn how, but I hate math. It was just another point of frustration.” Athos was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion.  


“Did he ever do work as an accountant?” Athos asked.  


“You think he worked for the gang,” d’Artagnan said flatly, looking up at him. Athos paused. He wasn’t used to distraught family members making connections like that. It was easy to forget that beneath the grieving son, d’Artagnan was an officer in training.  


“I think it’s a possibility,” he allowed. “We haven’t been able to find any other links.” He half expected d’Artagnan to get angry, but he just looked lost.  


“I don’t know,” he said finally. “If he ever did, it was before I was born. I’d like to think that it would be impossible, but I can’t. One of the things we fought about was that he only told me what he thought I needed to know.”  


“So let’s say he did,” Aramis interjected. “If that’s true, they haven’t bothered him in over twenty years. Why now?”  


“Something changed,” Athos agreed.  


“I still think they’re looking for something,” Aramis said. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. If they were trying to send a message, arson would be easier than drawing all of this police attention.”  


“So what were are they looking for?” Porthos asked. They must think d’Artagnan knows where it is. That’s why they went after him.”  


“I know one way we can find out,” Athos said.

*****

“That was rough,” Porthos huffed in the car. Athos glanced over at him. They were headed to the precinct to see if they could get any new info out of the man in custody. He had decided to leave Aramis and d’Artagnan at the safe house, ignoring the latter’s protests. “D’Artagnan finished the RCMP academy, huh? It shows,” Porthos continued. Athos humored him, even though they had all read the same file.  


“Top of his class,” he said.  


“Could use a new rookie,” Porthos said, switching the channel on the radio.  


“Porthos,” Athos said, “we are in the middle of a murder investigation. Now is not the time to be recruiting him.”  


“No time like the present,” Porthos shot back. Athos ignored him until they got to their destination.  


“We’ll see,” he said before getting out of the car.  


“That’s basically a yes,” Porthos muttered.  


“It’s a maybe,” Athos called over his shoulder, but that didn’t stop Porthos from grinning.  


Treville was waiting for them inside.  


“Your suspect is being recalcitrant. I’ve left this one to stew for awhile,” he told them. “And Thierry’s team hasn’t had any luck finding the other two.” If he was frustrated with the situation, he didn’t show it. “What did you find out from the son?”  


“Alexandre d’Artagnan was an accountant twenty something years ago,” Athos informed him. “I think that may be the connection we’re looking for. It would explain, too, why his record and finances are so clean now. If he broke off from them, he wouldn’t want to draw any attention to himself.”  


Treville nodded. “Makes sense. So why go after him now?”  


Aths shrugged. “Haven’t worked that out yet. But we think they’re looking for something.”  


“Get to it then,” Treville said. Athos nodded, but he’d already walked away.  


“He’s a bundle of sunshine today,” Porthos remarked as they walked to the interrogation room.  


Athos snorted. “He doesn’t like it when multiple of his teams are tied up on one case. Makes him twitchy.”  


Their conversation was cut off when they reached the room where Brooks was being held. Athos looked over at Porthos.  


“Do you want to be good cop or bad cop?” he asked.  


“That’s an outdated notion,” Porthos said, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll both be bad cop.”

*****

Athos rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand. Brooks had been fairly easy to get to talk, once they started laying out what they already knew and what they were going to charge him with. The threat of a murder charge was especially effective (not that anything was going to get him out of attempted murder, but that was beside the fact). The problem was that he was just a minion; he didn’t know much to begin with.  


Their major breakthrough had been finding out what the gang was after: a flashdrive. Athos figured that Alexandre had kept some sort of evidence as collateral against his retirement. Brooks and his partners had been told to bring d’Artagnan back alive, so they must think he knew where it was. They were wrong, of course. Alexandre had kept his former life firmly under wraps.  


His concentration was broken by his phone ringing—or more accurately, vibrating—in his pocket. He could never understand how people ignored their phones when even the silent setting was so disturbing, but when he said that out loud Porthos just starting making old man jokes. He saw Aramis’ name on the screen and frowned.  


“Aramis, we—”  


“Listen,” Aramis interrupted, and it was the tone of his voice rather than the word that made Athos close his mouth with a snap. Porthos, who had looked up at hearing the name, frowned. “The electricity and the landline just went dead. I saw at least five men approaching the house.”  


“I’m sending officers,” Athos said, snapping his fingers at Porthos, who was already on his own phone. “Is d’Artagnan with you?”  


“Yes,” Aramis replied, but paused.  


“Aramis?” Athos asked.  


“They just broke down the door,” Aramis hissed. “I’ll do what I can, but we’re outnumbered, and I’m the only one with a gun.”  


“Go,” Athos ordered, “we’re on our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm sorry for the cliff hanger, but I'm not really :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating early because you're all wonderful and I didn't want to leave you in suspense for too long.

The hanging door and milling police officers didn’t give Athos much hope as he slammed the car into park and jumped out. He swept into the house, Porthos on his heels. Everyone moved out of his way.  


He felt a little tension leave his shoulders when he saw Aramis sitting in what seemed to be the only intact kitchen chair with a paramedic leaning over him, but not by much. He had some spectacular bruising on the left side of his face, and there was something wrong with the shoulder. He tried to straighten when he saw them, but grimaced and slouched back. The paramedic glared at them over her shoulder.  


“Stay there,” Athos commanded. “Are you alright?”  


“I’m fine,” Aramis said, dismissing his question with a wave of his good hand. The paramedic snorted, so Athos turned to her instead.  


“And the professional opinion?”  


“Minor concussion, bad bruising, and a dislocated shoulder,” she rattled off. Her name tag read _Reid _. “He needs to get it set at the hospital.”  
__

__“Can’t you do that?” Aramis asked her irritably.  
_ _

__“No,” she and Athos both said at the same time.  
_ _

__“He’ll go,” Athos promised her. He turned to Aramis. “What happened?”  
_ _

__“They took him,” Aramis said, seething.  
_ _

__“Looks like you put up a good fight,” Porthos said, eyeing the damage. He had taken his position beside Aramis, and Athos knew nothing anyone could do would budge him.  
_ _

__“Of course,” Aramis said. “But there were at least five of them, and only two of us. D’Artagnan did manage to break a chair over one of their heads, though.” Athos shook his head. Of course he had. “We have to find him.”  
_ _

__“We will,” Athos told him. “Treville has got people tracking down every bolt hole in the city. But you’re going to the hospital first. Porthos will go with you.”  
_ _

__“What are you going to do?” Aramis asked.  
_ _

__“I’m going to have another talk with our friend Brooks,” Athos growled._ _

____

*****

In the end, Athos didn’t get a chance to interview Brooks again. Treville had gotten there first. He stepped out of the room and closed the door just as Athos swept down the hallway. He held up a hand as Athos opened his mouth to speak.  


“How’s Aramis?” he asked.  


“Minor injuries,” Athos told him. “I sent him to the hospital to get his shoulder set. Porthos is with him.”  


Treville nodded, “Good. Brooks doesn’t know anything.”  


“What do you mean?” Athos demanded. “That’s impossible.”  


“Oh, he told me where the drop off location was for him, but the Markham gang isn’t stupid, Athos. They’ll have changed it by now.”  


“So what are we supposed to do then?” Athos asked, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Sit around on our hands? D’Artagnan doesn’t know where the flash drive is, and as soon as they realize that, they’re not going to have any use for him anymore.”  


Treville waited for him to finish.  


“Are you quite done?” He asked. “Good. We’re going to figure it out, is what we’re going to do. D’Artagnan’s not stupid. He’ll buy us some time. The gang is slippery, but we’ve been gathering intel on them for awhile, and I have a list of possible places. The hard part will be to start searching them without giving what we’re doing away. If we alert them, they may run again.”  


Athos took a breath. Treville was right, of course, and yelling wasn’t going to help.  


“Right,” he said. “Right. The list?”  


“I already have people working on it,” Treville told him. “Go make sure that Aramis is in working order. I’ll forward the info to your phone.”  


Athos nodded, and left. He drove to the hospital, and didn’t realize quite how tense he was until he practically had to pry his hands off the wheel after parking. He cracked his knuckles to relieve the pressure and let his head thud back against the seat for a moment, trying to regain some control. Aramis was injured and most likely feeling guilty for something that wasn’t his fault, Porthos was worried about Aramis, and d’Artagnan was kidnapped. Who knew what shape he was in? Especially since he seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut.  


But he couldn’t concentrate on that right now, or he wouldn’t be able to do what he had to. The first step was to make sure that Aramis wasn’t blaming himself. Athos opened the door and stepped out.

*****

Porthos looked up when he slipped in from outside the partition curtain and made a face somewhere between an attempt at a smile and a grimace.  


“You just missed all the fun,” he said. He was gripping Aramis’ good hand. The other man was pale and sweating, and cursing in a continuous mumble.  


“They set his shoulder?” Athos asked, mostly just to make conversation while Aramis recovered a bit.  


“Yup,” Porthos said, popping the “p”. “He’s gonna have to wash his mouth out with soap later. I’d tell his priest what he said, but I think I’d get excommunicated by proxy.”  


“I’m sure you’ll remind him,” Athos said. “Did they say anything else?”  


“Just that we should keep an eye on him to make sure the concussion doesn’t get any worse. Nurse is getting his discharge papers now.”  


“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Aramis grumbled. He used Porthos’ hand as leverage to help him sit up.  


“You looked busy,” Athos quipped.  


“Did you find D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked, ignoring his attempt at humor. Athos glanced at Porthos—surely he knew it hadn’t been that long.  


“Not yet,” he said when Porthos just shrugged. “Treville has got people working on it.” In fact, it was almost frightening how fast the search had been organized. Athos’ phone had beeped with the details while he was riding the elevator up. Unfortunately, the list of possible places was long.  


“What now?” Porthos asked.  


“We regroup at the precinct and see what we can come up with,” Athos told him. “There are teams already doing the legwork, so our job is to think smarter than the gang.” He held a hand out, hovering uncertainly while Aramis slid off the bed, but the man steadied himself on Porthos and didn’t seem to notice, so he dropped it again.  


The nurse came in with the discharge papers, and Athos had to pay attention because he was positive that Aramis wasn’t.  


They made it to the car, Aramis refusing to let anyone help him, before Athos recognized his stubbornness as guilt. That didn’t mean he knew how to fix it, but at least it made sense now. They really needed to wrap this case up so his team could pull itself back together.

*****

“Porthos,” Athos said suddenly. “I would kill someone for a cup of coffee right now.”  


Porthos looked up from where he was poring over lists of known gang affiliates, trying to find anything useful, and eyed Athos’ already half-full cup doubtfully. And then his own empty one. He shrugged and gathered them up, heading to the break room. Athos swiveled his chair to face Aramis, who hadn’t even looked up from his own stack of files, even though his head had to be killing him.  


“Stop it,” Athos said. Aramis finally glanced up.  


“Stop trying to find a lead?” he asked. The words had an edge as sharp as broken glass.  


“Stop wallowing in guilt,” Athos clarified, undeterred. “Neither Porthos nor I could have done any better.”  


Aramis rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted—they all were—but Athos wasn’t going to let this rest until he got it through his hard head. “It doesn’t make any difference if he’s dead before we find him.”  


“That’s not going to happen,” Athos told him firmly.  


“You don’t know that,” Aramis snapped.  


“I do,” Athos said, “because we’re not going to let it happen. We made a mistake—all of us—by underestimating our opponents. It’s not going to happen again. We’re going to figure out where they’re going—” he paused, mid-rant. Aramis tilted his head.  


“That is the point, yes,” he said.  


“It’s not where they’re going,” Athos said.  


“Isn’t it?” Porthos asked, walking back into the room. “Are you done arguing over whose fault everything is?”  


“Why isn’t it where they’re going?” Aramis pressed.  


“Because they’re still looking for that flashdrive,” Athos told them. “And D’Artagnan will have caught on to this pretty quickly.”  


“But he doesn’t know where it is,” Porthos pointed out.  


Athos shook his head. “No, but he knows where they think it is, and he’ll be trying to make it as easy for us to find him as possible.”  


“He’s going to take them back to the farm,” Aramis breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! More suspense.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised Arduna another chapter today, and I almost didn't make it, but here it is!

Athos threw Porthos his keys and barreled into Treville’s office to tell him their theory. Treville waved him on before he was even finished speaking, picking up his phone.  


“Go,” he ordered. “Be careful. I’ll send more units to back you up.”  


He didn’t waste any more time. If they arrived before the gang, they could set up an ambush and have the metaphorical higher ground.  


It didn’t work out that way. Even as Porthos pulled into the long drive, he could see lights on in the house.  


“They’re already here,” Athos said. His brain was trying to run a hundred scenarios at once, but the only ones that were sticking ended in blood. “Pull off to the side, we’ll approach the house on foot.” They all slid out of the car, pausing to strap on bullet proof vests and grab extra ammunition. Even though the house was lit up—they weren’t being subtle, Athos thought. They must not expect to be found—the rest of the property was dark, including the barn. There were two silver SUVs parked by the house, with two men who were big enough to be hired muscle lounging around them. One had a lit cigarette in his mouth, the glowing tip a beacon in the dim light.  


Athos motioned for Porthos, ironically the best of them at sneaking despite his size, around the side of the house to reconnitor. His route took him behind the cars, out of the line of sight of the hired thugs. It was an anxious few minutes as he and Aramis waited in the shadow of the trees. Athos was suddenly vividly aware of the evening sounds: the wind rustling the dry leaves overhead, the birds calling to each other. The criminals chatting about sports.  


He had to brace himself against a flinch when Porthos appeared again beside them.  


“There’s three in the house, not counting d’Artagnan,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “One of them looks like he thinks he’s important. They’re in the living room right now, and it’s tense.”  


No time to wait for backup, then. They needed to get rid of the loiterers first, but doing that without alerting anyone inside the house was going to be tricky.  


“We need a distraction,” Aramis whispered. “I’m great at distractions.” He was right on both counts. Athos motioned for him to go ahead, and Porthos to go with him. They crept away, taking a roundabout path to the deserted barn. In a few minutes there was a clatter, like something falling. The two men by the cars looked up, then at one another. One of them made his way over to the barn, leaving the smoker by himself. Athos circled the car and came up behind him. While he was distracted by his fellow criminal entering the barn, he grabbed him in a headlock and pulled him down to the ground, holding him until he stopped thrashing, then dragged the unconscious man into the bushes and zip tied his hands and feet. His teammates came back over, Aramis nodding to indicate the other man was taken care of.  


“How are we getting in?” Porthos asked? Athos considered. The front door was out. It was too exposed to the living room. He considered the roof, but if they got into a firefight the narrow stairs would be a bad place to be caught.  


“The study,” he said at last. The three of them went around the side of the house. The window, to his surprise, wasn’t locked. Either the universe was looking out for them, or d’Artagnan was. He slid it open and climbed inside, holding his breath in hopes that the floorboards wouldn’t creak. They didn’t. The other two followed him. The door to the study was partially open, and light was spilling in from the hallway. In it, he could see that the room had been ransacked.  


There were also voices.  


“I’m running out of patience,” one said, harsh and insistent. There was an almost inaudible murmur as an answer.  


“You said it would be here, but I still don’t have it in my hands. I’m beginning to think you lied,” said the first voice. Athos crept towards the open door, and he could actually hear d’Artagnan answer this time.  


“I didn’t lie. It’s here.” D’Artagnan’s voice was slightly slurred, and Athos frowned.  


“Then why wasn’t it where you said?” the man asked. Athos could practically feel d’Artagnan shrug from across the hall.  


“How should I know? He probably moved it without telling me. He didn’t trust anyone.” It was a bluff, Athos knew, but a good one. Just bitter enough to be believable. It might buy them a few more minutes.  


“I’m going to give you ten seconds to tell me where it is,” said the man. “And if you don’t give me an answer, I’m going to shoot you and leave you to die.” Nevermind, then. No time.  


“Then how are you going to find it?” d’Artagnan scoffed.  


“I’m not,” he said. “But probably no one else will, either. I’m willing to take that chance. Or I might just burn the place down to be sure. Ten.”  


“I don’t know where it is,” d’Artagnan said steadily. Aramis and Porthos crept up beside the door as well.  


“Nine. Eight.” Athos rose from his crouch. “Seven. Six.”  


“Fuck you,” d’Artagnan spat.  


“Five—”  


The three of them burst through the door. One of the henchmen went down immediately under Aramis’ excellent aim, the other a moment later courtesy of Porthos. The third man Athos immediately labeled a snake in his head. At the first sign of disturbance he slid behind d’Artagnan and was now holding his gun to the younger man’s head.  


Stalemate.  


“Drop your weapon,” Athos ordered. D’Artagnan had blood running down one side of his face and was swaying on his knees, but he didn’t look afraid. The man scoffed.  


“As if,” he said. “Back off or he’s dead.”  


“One more chance,” Athos told him. “Drop your weapon.”  


“Do you even—”  
Athos shot him. The man fell back, clutching his shoulder and cursing. D’Artagnan scrambled away while Porthos kicked the man’s gun away and stood over him.  


“You shot me!” The man whined.  


“I’m out of patience for today,” Athos said. He turned to Aramis, who was kneeling beside d’Artagnan. “Well?”  


“He’ll live,” the agent told him cheerfully. “But I think this warrants another trip to the hospital.” D’Artagnan groaned at that, which did more to alleviate Athos’ worry than anything else. If he was complaining, he’d be fine.  


“People outside,” Porthos reported.  


“Who?” Athos asked, attention snapping back to the situation.  


“Our guys,” Porthos said. Athos stepped out onto the porch and gave a lazy wave.  


“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled. The adrenaline high was making him sarcastic. More than usual, anyway.  


One of the officers snorted. “Shoulda known you’d have it handled,” he said. “You do, don’t you? Have it handled?”  


“There’s a perp in the barn, and one at the tree line there,” Athos said in reply, pointing. “We’ve got three more in the house, one live. Going to need at least two ambulances, though.” The officer waved his men off to gather their suspects.  


“I’ll call it in,” he said. “Anything else?”  


Athos shook his head and went back in the house. Someone—probably Aramis—had applied a pressure bandage to the wounded criminal’s shoulder and moved him to sit against the wall. He also now had his hands zip tied in front of him, and was glaring sullenly. D’Artagnan, with Aramis still hovering, was in the kitchen in a scene reminiscent of the day before. Athos shook his head. He worked with a bunch of trouble magnets.  


“Cavalry’s here,” he announced as he came in the room. “They’ll take care of the clean-up.”  


“Too bad we don’t have the flash drive,” Aramis said, trying to get a better look at the cut on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “That would tie things up rather nicely.”  


“We do have it,” d’Artagnan said. They both stared at him. “Well, not have it, exactly,” he corrected himself. “But I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”  


“And that is…?” Athos began, raising one eyebrow. D’Artagnan pushed himself up, and they both reached for him as he staggered.  


“I’m fine,” he said, waving them away. He wasn’t—he was a mess—but Athos had a sudden and strong feeling that he wouldn’t leave well enough alone until this was done. They followed him out to the barn, and if Athos had to nudge him to correct his course a couple of times, no one mentioned it. He drew the line at climbing ladders, though.  


“No,” he said firmly. “You almost certainly have a concussion. You can’t walk a straight line.”  


“Fine,” d’Artagnan said, crossing his arms. The effect was mitigated by the fact that he looked ready to fall over. “Then you go get it.”  


Athos grimaced. “What am I looking for?” he asked.  


“There’s a beam, up on the left,” D’Artagnan said. “It has my initials carved into it. There’s a hole at the joint.”  


Athos scaled the ladder and ducked carefully under the wooden rafters. He found the beam that D’Artagnan had described and followed it to the end. The hole looked like barely a notch in the wood, but someone had carved a small compartment out. There was a yellowed envelope inside, addressed to D’Artagnan—to Charles . He made his way back down and handed it over. D’Artagnan looked at it for a long moment.  


“Well?” Athos prompted gently. D’Artagnan opened the envelope and a small, nondescript flash drive fell into his hand. D’Artagnan held it out to him.  


“I think this is what you’re looking for,” he said. Then his knees gave out and Athos barely managed to catch him before he hit the floor, and only then because he was standing so close. They both ended up on the ground.  


“Shit,” he cursed. “Aramis, get the ETA on the ambulance.” The other man was out the door before he’d finished speaking, but d’Artagnan was already waking up with a groan.  


“Whoops,” he mumbled.  


“You’re an idiot,” Athos informed him.  


“So I’ve been told,” he said, trying to push himself up. “Can you let me up?”  


“No,” Athos said, “you just passed out and almost broke your face on the ground. We will be waiting for the paramedics.” D’Artagnan put up a half-hearted protest, but that was all. Aramis returned a few minutes later with two paramedics in tow, and Athos moved so that they could do their job.  


“Treville is outside,” Aramis informed him. “He wants to see you.”  


Athos nodded. “Keep an eye on this one,” he said, nodding towards d’Artagnan, who was arguing with one of the paramedics over something. Aramis just grinned at him.  


Treville was directing everything with the precision of a machine. He was speaking with the coroner when Athos approached, but wrapped up his conversation and waved him over.  


“All well?” he asked.  


“Well enough,” Athos said. “D’Artagnan is a little roughed up, but he’ll be fine.”  


“Good,” Treville said, nodding. “I’ll take care of this mess. We can debrief tomorrow, but for now get some rest. We’ll have to see what rats we can catch with their connections to all this.”  


‘That,” Athos said, “might be easier than you think.” He held up the flash drive. Treville’s mouth quirked up into a small smile.  


“How convenient,” he said, taking it from Athos.  


“We aim to please.”  


“Then go,” his commissioner said, shoo-ing him. “I don’t want to see you before noon tomorrow.”  


“Gladly,” Athos said, and went to find his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the wrap-up left!


	8. Chapter 8

“Deja vu,” d’Artagnan muttered. Athos barely made it out from behind the oxygen mask that he was being forced to wear..  


“It wouldn’t be if you didn’t keep getting yourself in these situations,” Athos told him. D’Artagnan gave him an outraged look and pulled the mask away so he could retort.  


“I did not get myself into this,” he said, “it just happened.”  


“Happened like a headache,” Aramis chimed in from where he was leaning against the wall on the other side of the bed. “There’s usually an underlying reason.”  


“Go easy on him,” Porthos said. He was perched on the end of the bed despite one of the nurses shooting him dirty looks. “He’s injured.”  


“Thank you,” d’Artagnan exclaimed.  


“Besides,” Porthos continued, “wouldn’t want to insult his delicate sensibilities.” D’Artagnan threw up his hands and decided to give them the silent treatment. It gave Athos a chance to look him over. The paramedics on scene had assured him that the fainting spell wasn’t something to be overly concerned with, given what he’d been through, although Athos was still thrumming with tension.  


He was also apparently dehydrated, had a mid-grade concussion, two cracked ribs, and was bruised ten ways from Sunday. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been—almost was, if they’d been any later—but it was bad enough. A nurse had set up an IV to help with the dehydration and given him painkillers for everything else. Treville had sent a uniformed officer to stand by the door, but Athos didn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.  


It turned out that the two men who had escaped the first time they went after d’Artagnan were among the ones they’d caught a few hours ago. It made him feel better to know they were off the street. Treville was already having people analyze what was on the flashdrive, so it wouldn’t be long before he started making more arrests. There would be trials, still, and d’Artagnan would probably be asked to testify—they all would—but they could worry about all that later.  


“How long do I have to stay?” d’Artagnan asked, breaking his silence, which hadn’t lasted all that long.  


“Until a licensed medical professional says otherwise,” Athos said firmly.  


“Probably days,” Aramis said, grinning, and really d’Artagnan was too old to pout like that.  


It was actually just overnight. Athos was tempted to send the others, especially Aramis, who was also injured, home to get some rest, but he had a suspicion that they would cheerfully mutiny if he tried. Instead, he convinced one of the nurses that they were part of the protective detail and got her to set up a folding cot so he could at least make Aramis lie down.  


D’Artagnan woke up out of a nightmare a few times during the night, gasping for breath. He always got a handle on himself before Athos could say anything, although after the second time when he realized Athos was awake he gave him an unsteady smile before trying to go back to sleep.  


That was alright; Athos would keep watch.

*****

“How’s it coming?” Athos asked, knocking lightly on the doorframe. D’Artagnan looked up from the box her was packing. It was one of many that was laid out in the room, waiting to be taped up and moved.  


“Slowly,” he replied, sitting back on his heels. D’Artagnan, they’d discovered quickly, did not stay still well. The flashdrive had given them plenty of evidence to take down the gang leaders, but since he had decided to testify, he was forced to remain nearby while the trial dragged on. Besides taking care of the horses and repairing his front door, he had apparently decided to do some spring cleaning while he was removing what the intruders had damaged.  


“Doesn’t look slow,” Athos commented. He was considering hiring the boy to clean his own apartment.  


“No,” D’Artagnan grimaced, “it just feels like it. Any news?”  


“Treville seems to think it’s almost wrapped up, and that the court will go in our favor,” Athos said. “I’m sure Porthos already told you that the charge against you was rules as self-defense.”  


“He did,” d’Artagnan nodded, fiddling with the contents of the box until he could get the lid to close properly.  


“And?” Athos prompted.  


“And what?” d’Artagnan asked, looking up.  


“We never really discussed that whole...incident.” He was trying to get better at recognizing these types of moments. He really was.  


“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan said, hesitating. “I didn’t mean to kill him, but I can’t say I would do anything differently if I had the chance. I probably should be more upset about it in particular, but everything is kind of all mixed together right now.” He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.  


“It’s a lot to process,” Athos agreed. “For the record, I don’t think you had a choice. And we did get enough evidence to arrest some of the prominent gang leaders. Not even the very slimiest lawyers could get them out of it this time. Your father really knew what would stick.”  


D’Artagnan snorted. “That doesn’t surprise me. I just wish he could see it.”  


“Yeah,” Athos said, knowing that it wasn’t enough. D’Artagnan didn’t seem to mind, though. He stood and stretched. It had been long enough that the most recent bruises were only hints of yellow.  


“Where are Aramis and Porthos?” he asked.  


“Trying to outdo each other in who can pet the most horses,” Athos said, rolling his eyes. D’Artagnan shook his head.  


“I’m sure the competition is very fierce.”  


“I happen to know that Porthos cheats,” Athos admitted.  


“Oh?”  


“He puts sugar cubes in his pockets.”  


D’Artagnan laughed. “We’d better go referee, then.”  


The sky was a shade of blue particular to mid autumn, and a light breeze ruffled their hair as they walked to the barn.  


“What do you plan on doing now?” Athos asked, before he could talk himself out of it.  


“Not sure,” D’Artagnan said. “I don’t want to sell the farm, but I’m definitely going to have to hire someone to take care of it and hopefully keep training the horses.”  


“You’re not staying?” he asked. D’Artagnan shook his head.  


“Not on the farm. I love it, but I joined the RCMP for a reason. That’s what I want to do with my life.”  


“Hmm,” Athos hummed. “Well you could always stay close by. There’s an opening on my team, in fact.” It took him a few steps to realize that D’Artagnan had stopped walking. He turned to face him.  


“What are you saying?” D’Artagnan demanded.  


“Treville has been on me for years to even up our number,” he shrugged. “I think you’d make a good fit.”  


D’Artagnan broke out in a beaming smile. Aramis, who had spotted them from the barn, took that moment to yell: “Are you coming or what?”  


“Yes,” D’Artagnan called back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! Thank you so much to everyone for the amazing response to this story. I am definitely planning to write more for this AU. The next thing might be some one shots while I try to come up with a convincing longer plot. It's been real!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! I'll be posting one chapter a day (or trying to) until it's finished.


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